Pensive

"You want me to do what?"

Spike just held out the strainer. "Make me a pensive."

Wesley arched an eyebrow. "You mean pensieve, don't you?" The corner of his mouth quirked. "We have both read the books, Spike."

He glared. "I don't know. Don't care -- I just want to forget--" He stopped.

But Wesley knew, because Wesley was the one he always came to. "Why don't you just call him?" he asked, gently.

It's the tone that did it, that made Spike's delicate control snap. He hadn't slept in days, maybe weeks, and all he could think about was how incredibly stupid he was, and how often he'd burned bridges -- and towns -- behind him.

"Can't you do it? Thought you were a brilliant wizard or some such nonsense."

Wesley took the metal salad strainer from Spike's hand, but didn't say anything magical. Instead he set it down, and said, "Spike. Perhaps it's time you asked him home."